


Of Ribbons and Barbarians

by SainTalia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alive Mothers Club, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Big Heckin’ Wolfos, Canon levels of violence, Courtly intrigue, Culture Clashes, Culture Shock, Dark!Jon, Direwolves are ginormous in this one, Drama, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon is Lyanna’s kid by a rando, Love at First Sight, Lust at First Sight, Multi, No White Walkers (A Song of Ice and Fire), Other, Politics, Possessive Behavior, Religious Characters, Riverlands Lady Sansa, Romance, Sansa is Cat’s daughter by a Mooton, Wargs & Warging (A Song of Ice and Fire), and still a bastard, and trueborn, but in short bursts, clever!Sansa, confident!Jon, interfaith marriages actually being a point of contention, romantic!Sansa, the Targaryens never came to Westeros, the kingdoms remain separate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-26 09:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30104025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SainTalia/pseuds/SainTalia
Summary: The North is starving. The King is unwed.Terrible rumors circle the lands. Terrible wars. Terrible kings. And none more terrible than the White Wolf himself.And Sansa Tully, by her family’s will, would be his loyal bride.(Or: In a world where the Targaryens never came to Westeros, the game of thrones rages on.)
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Other Background Relationships - Relationship
Comments: 228
Kudos: 290





	1. Of Maidens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bowthaisarecool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bowthaisarecool/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picture by [Norrlands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norrlands/pseuds/Norrlands), the sweetest, most wonderful human being, who makes beautiful manips like no other. Gaze upon this beauty!
> 
> Now: new story!
> 
> Gifted to my dearest [Bowthaisarecool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bowthaisarecool/pseuds/Bowthaisarecool) who is a fabulous human being, a hilarious and witty author herself, and has left me the most wonderful comments and always gives me so much support in my writing. This one's for you, boo. 😘
> 
> Note: because the Targaryens never came to Westeros, a lot of Houses they wiped out are still in power here. Conversely, a lot of the houses they elevated aren't so high up in the pecking order (coughTullyscough). No Targs means no rebellion, so people who died there are alive here. There's a whole 300 year alternate history that happened, different marriages, different kids, different alliances, different power structures. But I tried to keep a mostly recognizable cast of characters.
> 
> I've add a listing of who/what/where to the bottom to clarify further.
> 
> And just to note, this story deals a lot in rumors and "telephone game" about events in other Kingdoms. What is true and what isn't? You'll have to read on and figure that out for yourself...
> 
> WARNINGS this chapter for: period typical attitudes for marriage and women, some slutshaming in an also period typical way, discussions of canniablism (but it's unclear it the events actually happened or are just rumor), discussion of famine.

It was an apple wine they poured, so tart that it bordered on sour. She took a sip and did her best not to pucker. Green apples, she guessed, picked too soon so the first frost of winter could not take them. They’d likely only been good for fermenting, so here they now poured at her grandfather’s table.

If this was all he could serve, then their winter stores were even thinner than she’d feared. And the state of their granaries kept up Sansa Tully late into her nights already.

A few of the servants were quietly sniffling. When Lord Vance was welcomed by her grandfather into the solar, the man’s rattling cough filled the room. Lord Clement Piper followed shortly after; his rotund belly no longer so rotund. Maester Vyman was already tucked behind a desk reading a missive while Riverrun’s steward, Utherydes Wayn, stood equally as gaunt at the other end of it.

They were up to something, those two, with their fraught whispers and glances they kept darting about. Perhaps she was paranoid, but Sansa thought a great number of those glances were coming her way.

It was a room filled with tired old men. If not for her mother the Lady Catelyn, her father Ser Myles Mooton, the mistress of Riverrun Lady Minisa, and Sansa herself—it’d have likely been a meeting of white heads and haggard visages deciding their fates.

It boded ill, and the next sip of wine had her stomach souring.

Her father Ser Myles settled beside her, kissing her temple and then murmuring into her hair: “Chin up, guppy. Your grandfather is looking far too smug for my liking, and I need you in tiptop shape.”

He was right. Hoster Tully, despite the shabby state of his table, looked a man fit to burst.

“Perhaps a raven has come from the Citadel.” She opined. “And winter is ending?”

Her father glanced out the nearest window to the rolling whiteness beyond. “Tell that to the skies.”

Sansa dearly wished she could.

Across the room, her mother finished accepting kisses to either cheek from grandfather, then graciously received any tokens of respect his bannermen saw fit to offer her. Catelyn Tully was heir to Riverrun, future Lady of the Red Fork and Mistress of the Third House, and loyal banner to the Trident King. It was a role her mother had been groomed for since she’d been a young girl with no brothers forthcoming. And in Sansa’s opinion, no finer lady existed in all the kingdoms.

Sansa’s father was of the same mind, for as soon as her mother reached them, he leapt up to kiss her hand and then sweep out her chair.

Mother touched his arm gently. “My love.” She murmured.

“My dearest lady.” Father returned.

And Sansa felt her heart squeeze terribly. When her grandfather passed, they would be in sure hands. Her mother would rule wisely, her father would command their armies, and sweet Bran would be raised to do both and more.

But what place would be made for her? Four years and four moons had winter lasted, and here she sat: her grandfather grinning slyly, his advisors buzzing like bees, and their stores run thin while her hand remained so noticeably unbound.

Grandmother Minisa passed around the table to join grandfather, one warm and weary hand squeezing Sansa’s shoulder as she passed. That was all it took. It struck Sansa like a bolt what was to come, when her grandfather ostentatiously announced: “Gentle lords and ladies, thank you for trekking these arduous lands to join me. Please, be seated.”

They sat all. A flick of Hoster’s hand, and Maester Vyman was hurrying across the room to spread a map over the table. Another flick, and Utherydes gave him the missive that had been so assiduously poured over.

“I’ve kept correspondence with Lord Denys Darklyn over this long winter, and he’s sent word—the Blackwater has seen its third thawing in less than two moons.”

That sent up an encouraged hum. Sansa felt her stomach unclench. Maybe this was good news. The best news. No reason to fear but hope.

“And further—” Her grandfather paraded. “The Yronwood has seen rains; more than half a dozen since the turning.” They all knew that while most of the kingdoms saw snows in winter, Dorne was a different beast. Their winters were bitter, dry, and cold affairs. If the rains were returning for true, that meant that…

Clement Piper clapped his hands against his gut. “Brilliant news, my lord! That’s the winter done and dusted, then?”

“I have no doubt.” Hoster declared, and a hearty cheer went across the room. Even Sansa joined in as they clacked their goblets against the table. Her father gripped her shoulder, and her mother took her hand and kissed her brow. Spring again, green shoots and flowers on the riverbanks, summer wines and fresh fruit dripping down their chins. Tourneys on the fields of Harrenhal; pennants snapping so brightly against the clouds. Fat babes, happy maids, and Queens of Love and Beauty to dance in summer halls.

The vision brought tears to her eyes.

But grandmother sat across from them, her face pinched and no cup raised in toast.

The soaring in her chest tumbled. Grandfather grinned wide. “And that gives us an opportunity. Before the ravens fly from the Citadel, we will look where no one has thought to look; win a prize before it is snatched from beneath our noses.” Then his hand fell on the map, finger speared to Winterfell.

And Sansa felt her premonition unfurl.

“The North?” Lord Vance asked.

“The North.” Hoster confirmed.

And her mother’s hands, which had once been gentle on hers, clenched ferociously tight. “The North, father? And what, pray tell, does that barren place have to offer after all they’ve cost us?”

“Cat,” Grandfather chided. “Our loss is no fault of the North, you know this.”

“I _know_ what you’re after.” Mother hissed. “Another Tully daughter made Queen. Do you think the Trident King will be pleased to know you’ve picked up this scheme again?”

Hoster’s face purpled. “I know since the First Darry sat his arse above the God’s Eye, that not a single house of the Red Fork has been wed to the Trident Throne. House Tully and our banners must endure, and if I must turn us northwards for that, then so be it. Let the King try to interfere—I have ways that will only end in his chastisement.”

Lord Ryger looked impressed at this claim, mouth opening to no doubt ask of these ways. Her lord grandfather silenced him with a look.

Lord Vance’s fingers drummed against the table. “My lady, we saw those barbarous armies King Eddard marched to the Stormlands from the North. They skinned men alive and ate their hearts while they still breathed. Even the lions trembled to face them in the field. The victories they struck against the King of the Rock—”

“Were numerous and ultimately meaningless.” Her father interjected. “Because they took their plunder and fled. After all that bloodshed and dying, the Westerlands are headless but for a child-king, and the Stormlands have won no lands while all their heirs are possibly bastards of incest. And what did that fleeing Northern army receive?”

“Death.” Sansa murmured, for now she understood what her place was. Her purpose. To whom her Grandfather wished her wed.

Terrible rumors circled the lands. Terrible wars. Terrible kings.

“The Bastard—” Mother said, and the rumblings were growing. “Sat pretty in the Barrowlands while his uncle and cousin died in the West. How convenient that all the rapists and murders he brought below the Wall, along with those cowards who were not at their King’s side when he rallied a second army, knew exactly where to lie in wait for their returning kinsmen. And this, of course, right after the Bastard’s cousins were slaughtered in Winterfell to clear the way for him—”

“Cat.” Grandmother said, and the room chilled to silence. “I dined with Queen Lyarra Stark in these very halls, when your sister’s betrothal was made. No matter what Bolton claims may be, they were not lured to Winterfell when she ruled on behalf of her grandchildren. They did not act in self-defense. Queen Lyarra and her grandchildren were murdered, and I know Boltons were driven from Winterfell after that bloody day. And it was Lord Bolton that stood beside King Eddard in the South when that terrible battle happened. When the rumors started.”

They all knew those whisperings. That the King in the North had not died in battle, but been felled by his own swords. That his heir Robb, after his bewildering marriage to a Westerling girl, had not just fallen from his horse during campaign—he’d been _pushed._

But rumors were the way of the kingdoms and the way of wars. Who was to say? All they knew was that when the retreating Northern Army led by Roose Bolton met the Neck, they met the White Wolf.

And as they said: on that day, the Neck had been _slit._

Grandmother finished: “We know who it was that destroyed the Boltons to the last man, and whom every Northern house has since pledged themselves. Blood of the Starks he may be—”

“Lyanna’s Shame.” Mother interjected.

Grandmother merely nodded. “So he is. But if he had done this treachery as you imagine, do you truly think the North would pay him fealty?”

Her mother had little answer to that. “They may not know.”

“A difficult thing to conceal.” Her grandmother murmured, and then kept her counsels once more.

Lord Piper spoke. “The Dowager Queen Corenna marched an army of mercenaries on the North’s back when Bolton called the retreat—she wouldn’t have done that if she did not believe treachery in her children’s deaths. We cannot say what the bastard knew, but there was vengeance that day on the Neck. And his aunt the Dowager—she crowned him after. Named him.”

It was not a song Sansa liked, that dreary tune. There was such terrible sadness in it. Slaughter and daggers in the dark; a wolf red with blood kneeling to accept his crown from a Daughter of the Storm. All of her children slain; their cousin so wrathful in his retribution.

Some songs did not call it vengeance though, but a cutting of a loose Bolton thread. An ally snuffed before he could demand due for the bloody work to crown a usurper.

There were rumors of bitter fighting in the North before that battle at the Neck. Terrible burnings and terrible slaughters. They said the Dreadfort had been torn down stone by stone. Sansa didn’t believe that last part; to destroy a castle when winter was already upon them—

“Why would he say yes?” Lord Blanetree asked. “This King in the North? We all know Lysa’s betrothal…it was made on King Rickard’s ambitions, my lord. The Bastard might not feel the same.”

“It does not matter what he feels, but what he _needs_.” Hoster answered firmly. “I’ve kept correspondence with every port in our kingdom. It was not even a year into winter that the North was sending ships willing to pay any coin for food. This last year they’ve started offering trade of goods. By the gods, they’ve asked for food on _credit.”_

That drew a gasp from them all.

Sansa saw the shape of it. “But Grandfather, our stores—”

“Spring is nearly here.” He assured, and for the first time was staring her in the eye. “We will have spring crops and early shoots aplenty. The rivers will break their ice and our men can drag their nets once more. Granddaughter, your dowry will be our stores, and you will be Queen in the North.”

She clutched at her neck. The colors of a once dreary room now seemed too bright. Her head was swimming, caught in an indomitable current. Queen, their stores, the thinness of the faces around her, this gamble made—

“And if you’re wrong?” Her mother asked grimly. “What will be your answer when the Red Fork starves?”

Hoster cast a dismissive hand. “Spring is coming, can’t you see? The walls of Riverrun weep daily. You will all see the thaws soon, and then so too will the other Kingdoms. I will _not_ be the only Lord to notice that the North is starving while a king in his prime remains unwed. My letter travels today. It will be done—my granddaughter will be Queen, and if any evil rises against us—it will be her sons riding at the head of that barbarous army to come in our defense.”

There were cheers again, a drumming of goblets. Sansa did not join; sightless, motionless, her mind laid barren as those winter fields.

There would be no swimming bare in the Red Fork, no jousts, no seeing all the dear faces of her friends made fresh and new by spring. Only the North. Only that bloody and barbarian king.

Her father had his arm around her. “Chin up; don’t let them see. If you cannot leave the current, then _swim.”_

She raised her head. If her eyes were glassy, no tears were shed. And if she had fears—small and squirming, and leaving her the scared girl once more—no one bore witness. She was Tully; daughter of a future High Lady. Beloved child of Ser Myles Mooton, he as bold as brass. She was sister to a future Lord of the Red Fork, who was her dearest companion and brightest jewel.

She was the future wife of a king.

“May we have an audience, father?” Sansa asked tremulously.

He nodded. “Your mother already seeks it. Just a little longer.”

The room emptied but for their kin. Sansa had to smile winsomely as she received her congratulations. It was not a done thing yet—but her grandfather’s bannermen made their expectations plain.

Her duty was to tame the North. Send their armies South if needed as the Queen Corenna of House Durrandon, wife of Eddard Stark, had already proven possible. Sansa would bring to her mother a goodson who was a king. When her brother Branston Tully ruled after their mother, he would have a goodbrother or even nephews on the Northern throne. And once winter was over and the starvations at an end, the trade that would be possible—

There would be no match of greater advantage her grandfather could make. She would have no knight or lord for a husband, but a bastard made king. If Sansa Tully had ever dreamed romanticisms; of pleasure barges and sweet letters dabbed in perfume, of gallant knights begging her father for her hand—they died in that very room.

Her mother’s voice came to her as if Sansa had surfaced from some great depth. “—not enough that we lost Lysa to their foolishness? To Lyanna’s treachery? That man you call King is the fruit of her shame and harlotry! He’s a Snow—he was not raised as a prince in that North, but a common squire! How could Sansa be happy married to such a brute?”

“His people are very devoted to him. You yourself saw Brandon Stark when he bewitched our Lysa—if the boy has even half his uncle’s looks, Sansa will find him comely. And from there, it is easy to find admiration. She was raised to see her husband’s virtues, Cat.”

Her father stood. “They say Northmen gut criminals and hang them bloody from their holy trees. They yet practice prima nocta—my Sansa was raised in the light of the Seven. Can we countenance such slights against her? Such horrors before her eyes?”

“Requests can be tendered.” Hoster answered sharply. “And you will find the light of the Seven has hardly stopped lords straying from their marriage beds in the South.”

Her father, from his risen place, put a hand against her shoulder. Sansa wondered if he could feel her sweat run cold as he asked: “What protections can we give her?”

“Sworn shields, a dozen guards, maids, and once she is Queen, ladies in waiting aplenty. You don’t think I’m fool enough to send her up there _alone_ , do you?”

Her mother snapped back. “I want uncle with her.”

“Cat—”

“And I now see why you didn’t invite him to this announcement, because you knew he’d be my ally in this! I cannot _believe_ you would ambush me in such a way—”

Truthfully, Sansa was thankful the Blackfish wasn’t here. He was a quarrelsome man when it came to marriage arrangements, and this day would be difficult without his bellowing to join it.

“She is _my_ daughter.”

“And she is _my_ granddaughter.” Grandfather thundered. “And as long as I rule Riverrun, you will remember that!”

Sansa found herself rising; found herself surprised that she didn’t lose her head and swoon to the floor. But here she stood: the morning bright, apple wine sour, her mother’s love for her shining so clearly that Sansa wept.

“Oh, my little love.” And her mother rushed to her immediately; took her up into warm arms as if she was but a babe again. Gods, the smell of her mother: rosemary, fresh linens, a dab of that sea grape perfume that father always brought from the shore. Would Sansa forget this scent in the North? Would her heart always ache so keenly as it did now?

“You do not have to do this thing.” Mother whispered. “I will send you to your father’s kin at Maidenpool.”

Sansa cleared her throat and then dashed her eyes clear. “He is a king, mother.”

“And a man we know not.” Her mother despaired.

But Sansa just nodded more firmly. “He is a king, and his people are starving. He will be grateful, and Uncle Brynden will know if he is kind. I will not be alone.”

“But if he is cruel…”

“We will find the measure of him.” And she looked to her grandfather. “I can meet him first, yes? I will not wed him sight unseen.”

The words bent the man’s shoulders inwards; dented that infernal will just a smidge. “Yes, of course, sweetling. I have seen no signs he wishes to come South, but you can meet him partway. We will send you to White Harbor. They will have septons and holy knights—men willing to keep you in safety before the King until this deal is struck.”

Mother pushed in. “Let me speak to her.”

Grandfather’s gaze was long, dark as these winter nights that plagued them. “Mind yourself, Cat.”

The only answer was an austere nod as her mother took her aside. The window was too bright. Her mother’s offering too quiet: “There are things you must know before you make this choice.”

Sansa felt her eyes sweep shut, heavy with the history that laid like bones upon them. “You have spoken so little of what happened to Aunt Lysa.”

“When you were a child…it was too painful to endure. She was young, in love, so bright with laughter. She would dance her nights away in the Great Hall—I saw her sometimes, in you.” Mother cleared her throat, then wavered. “We would swim in the rivers, she and I. Think ourselves mermaids destined to marry princes, and beguile them into our waters.” Her laugh was wet then, brittle. It tore a hole through Sansa. “It was only Lysa who had that destiny. When Brandon Stark and King Rickard came to one of our tournaments, she fell madly in love. Not even ten and five, and she was besotted. It served our fathers to see them betrothed.”

“And so they were.”

“And so they were.” Her mother agreed, eyes so far beyond the walls of this keep.

Mother continued: “Lyanna was Brandon’s only sister and betrothed to the brother of the Durrandon King. The North was so little involved below the Neck, that even Rickard’s ambitions could not see her married to a throne. Mayhaps that’s why she rebelled, the ungrateful harlot.”

Vicious songs had been sung of the White Wolf’s mother. None of them fit for a Lady’s ears, and yet Sansa had heard many. She had Rymund the Rhymer to thank for that. “What happened?”

“Ran off. She hid with some of her cousins, the Karstarks. By the time King Rickard found where she’d disappeared, she’d been gone for moons and insulted the Durrandons terribly. Brandon went to drag her home, but when he got there, he found that she was ruined—the girl had willfully defiled herself. So great was Brandon’s wroth, that he challenged the Karstark heir to a duel for allowing it. Maybe even having done the act himself. I believe Lord Karstark was at a bannerman’s keep that day…but it matters not. Brandon killed the Karstark heir, and when the boy’s father returned, he lost his mind in grief and murdered Brandon.”

Sansa gasped—couldn’t help the sound. To murder his liege lord’s heir, and a prince at that—it was beyond madness.

“It was war.” Mother answered severely. “And a short one at that. The Karstark line was slaughtered nearly to a man. To punish his daughter, King Rickard forced her to wed the youngest surviving son. He was only a boy, not even ten. So when that little fool came down pregnant not a moon into her marriage, it was obvious it was not her child-husband that had done the deed. That is the birthright of your King—foolishness and shame. Misery and dereliction of duty. Be wary of him, be wary of his mother, be wary of the lady who raised him.”

That distinction caught her. “Was he not raised by his mother?”

“No.” Was the sharp retort. “I heard Lyanna’s Shame was sent to the Barrowlands to be a page to Barbrey Dustin; the only woman who may have hated that harlot more than I. Barbrey was…involved, with Brandon, and terribly displeased when Lysa was chosen to be his bride. The woman was born a Ryswell, so remember this, Sansa. No Dustin or Ryswell will be friend to a Tully. It was an army of Dustins and Ryswells that helped crown the White Wolf, and they sit as his advisors now.”

She swallowed hard and took that information in. “I understand, I will be careful.”

“And do not…” Mother’s breath wavered. “Do not set your heart too much in him. They are careless, those Starks. Cruel. Do not…”

“Mother,” She whispered softly. “What happened to Aunt Lysa?”

“There came a letter telling us of Brandon. Lysa’s grief was monstrous. King Rickard offered her Eddard’s hand in his brother’s stead, but all she heard was her beloved’s death. Never to send her another sweet letter. Never to wed her. It was an accident, all that wine, that pain—she fell. The crenels were low, and she fell.”

Sansa could feel her eyes burning for the grief in her mother’s voice. Her mother was a lady, a named heir, the strongest person she knew. Catelyn Tully had not been born to be made small in misery.

“I will be careful.” Sansa repeated, then took her mother’s arm. “I will be smart, and sweet, and do as you taught me.”

And Mother gathered her strength. “Move with the currents, find your moment, and let your enemies dash themselves upon the stones.”

“Yes.” And Sansa prayed to the gods that she could do so. “The King’s people are starving. I have seen enough suffering in this life. If I can relieve any of it, I will win him.”

His fealty, his trust, his heart—

Was it a crime to want that from her husband? To hope? Barbarian he may be, but surely their hearts loved just the same. There could be some gentleness for her yet in this life.

There _had_ to be.

Her mother grasped her. “I pray it will be so. I truly do. You are the best of us, my darling.”

Sansa raised her chin as her father wanted. As her mother had taught her. Raised her voice to the room and said: “Send your letter, Grandfather. Let us see what this king has to say.”

And so Maester Vyman did; her grandfather dictating while all their family grimly stood around that scratching quill.

Somewhere in the space of it, grandfather reached for her mother. Took her by the elbow with an aching plea: “Cat, my dearest treasure, you will see the sense in this one day. I promise. The bounty it will bring our House will be immense. We have no sweeter hand nor sharper mind than your Sansa, and she will make a queen like no other. Have faith.”

Sansa wished the same. For faith, for hope, that her husband would be kind and true, and they might find some measure of understanding between them.

That Jon Snow—Jon Stark—would be as she dreamed him. For he would be her own.

When the letter was done, she watched the wax heat. Blue. Red. Poured onto the parchment until her grandfather affixed their seal. Tully Trout; rivers and blood.

Family. Duty. Honor.

Vyman lifted the raven to the window and cast it into the cold, and Sansa watched her future wing north until it vanished against the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having a bad health day, but at least I can get something out of it by posting. Anyone on here also a COVID long-hauler? Asking for a friend. 
> 
> I'm really curious how everyone feels about this premise, so leave me a comment if you can.
> 
> Anyhow, a listing of marriages and kids:
> 
> Rickard Stark + Lyarra Stark = Brandon, Ned, Lyanna, Benjen  
> Hoster Tully + Minisa Whent = Catelyn, Lysa  
> Tywin Lannister + Joanna Lannister = Cersei, Jaime  
> Lyanna Stark + Unknown Man = Jon Snow (24)  
> Lyanna Stark + Torrhen Karstark = Elissa (16), Eddard (11)  
> Catelyn Tully + Myles Mooton = Sansa (19), Bran(ston) (13)  
> Ned Stark + Corenna Durrandon = Robb, Arya, Rickon  
> Barbery Ryswell + Willam Dustin = Markas (25), Konrad (20), Brella (15)  
> Durran Durrandon XXIX + Cersei Lannister and/or + Jaime Lannister = Baldric, Durwald, Annara, Ormund, Myrcella  
> Jaime Lannister + Lynora Brax = Rosalind (18), Leah (15), Tommen (10)
> 
> I don't think any of the Lannister or Durrandon kids will get more than a passing mention in this story. But in case you wanted to know...
> 
> Now, Kings and Queens and Regents for the last 20 years:  
> (marks deceased)
> 
> North: (Rickard), (Ned), (Lyarra as Regent for Rickon), Jon Snow  
> Vale: Jon Arryn  
> Trident Kingdom [Riverlands + Crownlands]: Rycherd Darry V  
> Westerlands: (Tywin Lannister), Joanna Lannister as Regent for Tommen Lannister  
> Stormlands: Durran Durrandon XXIX  
> The Reach: Gyles Gardener IV  
> Dorne: Doran Martell
> 
> Any questions of anything going on, please ask, this is a complicated bit of history going on! Though I feel a lot will also be answered next chapter...which is a Jon chapter.
> 
> That will be posted in a handful of days, then we're going to weekly posts until I run out of chapters.
> 
> Tune in next time for: a certain letter arrives at Winterfell, and Jon Stark summons his own council.


	2. Of Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picture by [Norrlands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norrlands/pseuds/Norrlands), feast thine eyes on a sexy, barbarian!Jon, my lovelies. And that sexy wolf shield too. 👀👀👀 
> 
> Norrlands, once again, blows the rest of us out of the water with her gorgeous pictures. Hopefully I'll have just the chapter to match it!
> 
> Reminder to be mindful of rumors and imperfect POVs. Jon of course knows much more of what is going on in the North, but he doesn't know everything...

The letter of their salvation arrived on a break of the snows, the dawn shining behind the dark wings that brought it. Jon read it once, twice, then called for his council in what had once been his uncle’s solar.

It was his now, he had to remember that. Barbrey Dustin’s voice rang clear: _the lords can smell doubt, Jon, always recall this. Who is strong?_

_The man who doesn’t flinch._

_Good boy._

When he opened his eyes, the Lady Barbrey stood before him. She was older than he remembered, frailer. Her husband’s death in the Westerland War had done her no favors. Jon knew they both still grieved Willam Dustin, but the needs of a kingdom left little time for mourning.

But it seemed he would always see her as the woman who waited stone-faced in the bailey of Barrow Hall to welcome him, dark-haired and terrible in her beauty. He’d been naught but seven then and scared stiff, wrenched so far from his cousins on the King’s orders.

He had conjured so many fears for himself, so many monsters.

But she had merely lifted a hand. “ _Come.”_

And so he’d gone; a page, her husband’s squire, a man-at-arms, through two wars and a hundred battles, and now sitting here crowned and named before the North.

Her lips quirked. “Your Grace, if you’ve called us to attend the counting of the stores again, I’d say three times in a sennight is a _bit_ much.”

“I wouldn’t insult you in such a way, my lady.” He rose, stepped neatly over Ghost’s tail, then offered her a hand. She flitted a curtsy, gave a fond spit of _beast_ to Ghost where he laid, and then lingered as he swept out her chair. His gaze sheared upwards. “Though I must confess, I’ve called you for a related matter.”

“Oh?” She asked, blithe as could be, as if butter had never melted on her tongue. Ghost’s tail thumped in answer.

Behind her, Glover and Lord Umber entered the room. Wordless, he slid the letter to this woman who had once been his liege lady a lifetime past.

Her brows jumped at the broken seal, then kept rising the further she read. Her face turned _thunderous._

“You cannot countenance this!” She hissed.

Before she could seek to snatch the letter away—or gods forbid, throw it into the fire—he swept it back. “I am, and I will.”

“Your Grace—”

“What’s this, Barbrey?” The GreatJon rumbled. “It’s a little early in morning to work up such a sweat, but I suppose with widowhood and all—”

“Do not finish that thought if you wish to leave this room a man, Lord Umber.”

Umber shrugged broadly, grinning wide, but soon more lords and heirs and envoys were pouring in to drown the argument. Wylis of House Manderly, the new Lord Locke. Cassels, Condons, and Cerwyns, too. A Flint of the Watch and a Flint of the Finger that he had yet to tell apart. Jojen Reed, the only crannogman who’d seen fit to come up from the Neck. A token Crowl from the Skagosi. Longs, Holts, even Branches from deep in the wolfswood. A Karstark envoy to represent Jon’s half-brother who ruled the Karhold. A Hornwood, two Lightfoots. Roger Ryswell behind them, heir apparent and brother to the Lady Barbrey.

Lastly, as they had come from a camp outside the walls, were the Magnars of Thenn, Hornfoot, and the Walrus Men. What cheer and jostling there’d been in the room ground to a halt. Sigorn of Thenn just grinned harshly, knocked his fist of his chest and hailed: “King Snow!”

“Stark.” A Cerwyn muttered, and Jon did appreciate the support.

“Enough jawing.” He called above the rabble. “Sit.”

They sat, though not without elbowing and muttering, and a great deal of rattling of hilts. It wouldn’t do.

“And to be clear.” Jon added mildly. “The next man to attempt a stabbing at my council, will have his head put over the gates.”

Hands left hilts. A few globs of spit hit the floor. It’d have to do. “I’ve received a letter from the South that may offer us an answer to our food crisis.” Their famines. Their starvations. Just that morning, they’d lost another dozen souls from the Wintertown to a storm. The poor fools had been caught unaware in the hills, desperately peeling tree bark to bring back to their families to roast and eat.

“The Dowager Queen?” A Condon asked, but Jon merely shook his head. His aunt would be no help—the Stormlands had been too ravaged already.

Lady Barbrey rose. “Your Grace, if I may read your missive to the room?” Oh, she would, and poisonously at that. But every man here knew where his armies had come from. When Eddard Stark had called his banners, only green boys and greybeards had answered from Ryswell and Dustin. When Jon’s cousins and grandmother had been murdered in Winterfell, when House Bolton and all their remaining men had been wreaking bloodshed to take the North, he knew who had answered his calls. Who had been ready to stand under his banner, even though he’d already massed Wildlings thirty-thousand strong this side of the Wall.

The Umbers would never forgive him that. The Mountain Clans wouldn’t, either. While they had fought for him, they had not answered a single of his missives after. None of the clans sat his council.

It was a price that Jon would pay. There would be bloodshed someday for this, but hopefully it would not be enough to wet the ground.

“By all means, my lady.” And Jon handed her the parchment once more. But he had been taught well, so while she read aloud to them, he watched the room. The tightening of jaws, the shifting of brows, whether there be smiles or frowns or some ugly grimace between.

The largest frowns, he found, were from lords who had a female relative of marrying age. That did not surprise him.

What surprised him was the first argument to spring forth. “Have we not had enough?” Lord Lightfoot bellowed. “First your uncle’s wife drags us into a war we had no claim in. Northern blood shed for an endless Southron folly. Hoster Tully only seeks to drag us into the same!”

“He’s right!” A Holt shouted.

“Enough Southron wars!” Came the Flint cry.

Jon didn’t move, didn’t rise. The table was a massive thing; solid oak that could seat twenty men. Ghost rose beneath it, back cracking off the table and raising it by an inch. A visible flinch passed through the room. Ghost resettled with a great gusting sigh, not at all bothered by the force of his collision.

Neither was Jon: “I have pardoned some of you for your part in that endless Southern folly, remember that.”

And remember they did. Who among them had not grown bitter at a war without end? When winter loomed, and crops had been left to rot in the fields? Would a man not grow resentful at that? Vengeful? Especially when Wildlings poured over the wall upon their homes with murder and rapine in their hearts, and no good northern men to raise the defense?

There was no whisper to answer him: _You were not there, Jon Snow._

He heard it all the same.

He could never know the full truth, who among them were traitors and who among them had been true. There had been a weighing between vengeance and mercy at the Neck, and to Jon’s own surprise—he’d found mercy.

But he did not know if he’d ever forgive Lady Barbrey for keeping him from his uncle’s side.

Wylis Manderly piped in. “This is different from Ned’s marriage—there is no word of military alliance in this letter. Food for marrying his granddaughter, that is what Lord Tully offers. No more, no less.”

“They expect more.” Roger Ryswell argued. “If the King marries this trout, then we’ll have half-fish on the throne who might feel called to save their kin from whatever mire they’ve gotten themselves into.”

“What true man _doesn’t_ answer his kin?” Glover growled, and Jon heard the rebuke to himself as clear as day. Ghost pressed against his leg; snarl silent but vibrating.

The Lady Barbrey heard it, too. “Men who fight for their kingdom instead of dying in pointless wars far from it, Glover.” A dozen fiery glares answered this, but none of them moved her. Everyone knew Barbrey Dustin’s hatred for all things Stark. All but Jon, it seemed, as she continued: “Though I suppose there is a point here. Many spoke against these southron marriages your grandfather wanted, your Grace—even as proper a queen as Corenna tried to be for us…well. We all know what happened.”

It was a bitterness that would not leave them: that southron war of calamity.

But the faces around him were gaunt, all pale as the moon and sharp with hunger. There was no more time for foolishness. “Speak no more of my aunt; she has suffered enough. I will not hear her name tarnished in these halls.”

That brought the grumblings quiet once more. He was tired—four and twenty, and he felt two hundred. When would it end? “I know the state of my stores, my coffers. I have _beggared_ my house to feed my people, and I have beggared you all through taxes when there was nothing left that I could give. I hear no solutions from this council. Every day more of our people starve. Now is not the time for recriminations of what led us here—what’s done is done. Have you food or coin you did not tell me of? Do you hoard in your halls while our people starve?”

Dozens of sets of eyes could no longer meet his. He did not doubt every house here had their own secret stores. To feed themselves if all else failed, even if their smallfolk starved to a child outside their walls.

Even Barbrey shifted from him. He had wondered about her granaries; if she’d kept some secret supply to entice him into her newest gambit. But this winter had gone far too long. Whatever she’d kept, if she had done it—she’d likely already used it to keep House Dustin hearty.

He wondered sometimes if they’d all die here in the snows, buried and hungry and never to see the spring. Gods, if there was just one soft place he could rest his head. Just one. Some gentle thing to ease his aches. He was a ravaged man who had to wear a crown; wear a strength he didn’t have so other men wouldn’t flounder.

There would never be an end for him. No rest. No respite.

No gentle hour.

“No, your Grace.” Once voice answered.

“Never, your Grace.” Another few chorused.

No respite, and he stared around the room until his gaze _burned_ them. “I have an answer to our prayers before me. I cannot worry what will happen in a decade when our survival for another moon is not guaranteed. The children of the Lady Sansa will be my sons, my daughters, and I will raise them. If you doubt me even in this, then why did you name me King?”

One of the Cerwyns straightened. He was a man Jon had been raised with, in those early days when he had lived in Castle Cerwyn not a day’s ride for his uncles and cousins to come visit. Greet him with hugs, kisses, then gifts from their shared grandmother.

Cley Cerwyn spoke: “We are with you, Your Grace. The food is needed. House Tully is old and loyal, it will be a good match.”

Wylis Manderly followed. “I think it a good marriage as well, but my liege…I do not know how the King of the Trident will react to one of his bannermen making such a move. The last time the Tullys tried to ally with House Stark…there was anger. A deep anger.”

For the first time, Jojen Reed raised his voice. “Then he can smash his anger upon the Neck, it will give him no succor.”

“But for the Tullys in the South…?” A Branch asked timidly.

“They’ve made their bed.” Lady Barbrey decreed.

Nods then. A growing swell. A consensus was coming. “Anyone else?” Jon asked, and a few more voices rose.

Lord Umber’s broke first. “I went south once and saw Lady Catelyn—the trout’s mother—in her youth. If the girl has even half the looks of her mother, you’ll be a man well sated, your Grace.”

“The thought didn’t cross my mind.” Jon muttered, even though it had. But that pondering was a petty thing, meaningless in the face of his people’s suffering. The girl could actually look a fish, but if it brought them food, he’d happily wed her and make her his fishwife.

“She follows the Seven.” A Long of the Lake complained. A small number of scowls greeted this complaint, Wylis Manderly chief among them.

The last thing they needed was this religious schism again. “Yet even with Queen Corenna bringing her Seven-Pointed Star into marriage, we have yet to burn to the ground.” He dismissed. He wondered if any man would offer their daughter’s hand at this juncture, but for once, no overtures came. Perhaps they did not wish to be interrogated as to the state of their stores compared to the Tully.

There was a loud bellow, then Sigorn of Thenn slammed his fist into the table. “Why argument? Why fight? Steal fish-girl and her food, and the Gift will sing of King Snow.”

Jon sighed. “There won’t be any stealing—but yes. You make a strong point, Sigorn.” Stronger than any that had yet been made at this table.

“Fish-girl will be blood of our blood.” Sigorn agreed cheerfully, then kicked back into his seat. Jon tried not to rub at his aching head. Sigorn had married Alys Karstark who was aunt to Jon’s half-siblings. And though he and Alys bore no blood relation beyond a distant branching in the Stark line, Sigorn now considered them kin. It made handling the wildlings on their side of the Wall easier, so Jon had never argued the point.

“Magna of the Magnar.” The Hornfoot imparted, as if this was some great truth. Maybe it was.

The Great Walrus shoved in. “Fish good—strong. Always moving. Keep man alive.”

His half-brother’s envoy blinked at that, but seemed to find it not worth engaging in. Instead, the man turned to Jon and asked: “But what of the gold, your Grace?”

That drew some interest. Jon wanted to grind his knuckles into his skull. “Jojen.”

And Jojen Reed leapt to attention. “The swamps are still frozen, and even if they thawed tomorrow, it’d still be seven moons before they’d be warm enough for us to dredge. That gold will come back to us someday, but not now.”

It was an answer they’d been given a hundred times before, but still the lords cursed and spat. Their plunder that had come from the South and that unimaginable, suspicious amount of Lannister gold that Roose Bolton had in his baggage train by the wagonful—a moment of folly had lost it all. Roose had tried to sneak his treasures around Jon’s force, only to send it all sinking into the swamps.

Jon had no doubt that when summer came, a good dozen of his lords would be at the Neck with rakes and nets in hand and ready to help.

It was time, he knew it. Jon had remained unwed for just this: that someday he would be truly desperate, and only have one currency left to barter. His queenly aunt had spoken little of it—Jon had been a child and a bastard besides, and had never shared her confidences—but he knew Corenna had struggled greatly in coming to the North. Being a princess had not prepared her for their harsh ways, harsh living, harsh people.

This Tully girl, he knew, would find little joy here. He had heard tales of the Trident Court, and knew his own would be pitiful, coarse, and drab by comparison. Would she hate him, in time? Would their marriage become nothing but a well of poison between them?

Ned and Corenna—he was never sure if they’d loved one another, but there had been care there. Comfort. They’d ruled well as King and Queen. She had given him sons and a daughter, and Ned had treated her kindly in turn.

He could only hope that he and this Sansa Tully would have the same. That they would find some joy in each other, maybe even a passion in the darkness of their bedchamber. It was a small dream, but a dream that could bear fruit.

He had never thought to hope for a wife, let alone hope for her love.

The choice was made, he could smell it on the air. He struck the iron hot. “I will send my agreement to Lord Tully by nightfall. There is no more time; I will marry the girl and be done with it. She will be coronated as soon as we reach Winterfell.”

He rose to his feet. He was not a tall man, but he had been told he was a terrifying one. And as he rose, so too did Ghost, slinking and monstrous until the wolf was out from under the table. Jon stood, and yet Ghost stood taller. White as bone, red as blood. And Jon let their wrath _burn._ “As my Queen, Sansa Tully will be afforded every respect. I expect gifts and indulgences for her. And if any man speaks ill of her, I will strike him dead where he stands.”

There was shaking, a few nods, and a great deal of interest in the tabletop or even the floor. Did they remember the Neck? How he had howled? How the wolves bayed for their murdered kin, never to be seen again on this earth?

They had not wept, but they had made the Boltons _weep._

Jon felt his lip curl. _Who is strong?_

_The man who doesn’t flinch._

“Wylis,” Jon asked calmly. “Lord Tully spoke of White Harbor?”

The Manderly, bulk and all, shot to his feet. “I’ll send word to the Snowy Sept and my father. The moment Lady Sansa’s feet touch the shore, she’ll be whisked to you.”

“Good. Send a raven as soon as she arrives, I’ll meet her—” He did a mental calculation. “Beside the fork in the White Knife.”

“Very good, your Grace.”

And before anyone could conjure a reason to argue further, he barked out: “Dismissed!”

The solar emptied. There were congratulations, though few in number. His men were tired, bitter, or thwarted all. He did not expect much joy in the North for this marriage, but the food it brought would soften the blow.

To no surprise of his, Lady Barbrey and Roger Ryswell remained. Ghost stared at them both a long moment before flouncing off to lay at the fire. Barbrey barely paid the wolf mind. Roger watched the beast with eyes so wide, Jon could see the whites in them.

He snarled. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“Such manners.” Barbrey murmured. “You’d think you were raised in a stable.”

“I know your quarrel with the Tullys, my lady, so let’s not mince. I have a letter to write.”

She came to his side in a swish of her skirts. He knew there was a dagger somewhere under them. It was why he carried a dagger of his own in his boot beyond the one already visible on his belt. Always leave them guessing; Barbrey had taught him all her tricks.

So when she said: “I want you to be happy.”

He knew: “You want _us_ to be happy. Collectively. Happily in lockstep.”

“Is that treason?” She asked glibly, and Jon could only sigh.

She took that for an opening. “Tully girls are flighty; nothing in their heads but fish scales. You must have heard what Lysa did after the Karstark folly—threw herself from the castle walls. The last thing we need is an unstable Queen; selfish, short-sighted, and _weak._ Has Cersei Lannister not taught us this lesson already?”

His patience wore thin. “Have you had a journey south that I’m unaware of? Met the Lady Sansa to know her nature?”

“I know of Hoster Tully—and Lysa is more than enough to understand kind of women they breed. There is fear in the North of a southron marriage. We both know this; you heard the talk of Ned’s wife same as I. And you weren’t even _alive_ for the rancor when Rickard thought to marry two of his children to the south. This will destabilize your reign, you _know_ this. I’ve taught you better.”

“You did.” Jon answered plainly. “But we have no other choice. This girl—she will prove her mettle or not, but either way, the North will be fed.” And then quick as a viper, he caught her arm in a vice. Roger swung upright, hand to his dagger—but Barbrey stilled him with a gesture.

There was no fear in this woman for him. He didn’t know if there ever would be.

Jon quieted. Ghost stirred by the fire. “My lady, it was _you_ who taught me the mistakes of our family are not our own.”

It was no small thing to see softness in Barbrey Dustin. A little in the mouth, the jaw, something liquid in the eyes. She was the only parent he’d ever pleased.

His mother by blood lived in Karhold with his half-siblings, and yet the woman who’d raised him stood in this very room. Her hand cupped his forearm. “I know, Jon. Their failings were never yours. You have been _nothing_ but good for the North, but Brella—”

Brella Dustin, a girl he had been raised besides, and this sigh was wrenched out of him. He picked his words like a man picked the knives that would skin him. “Brella is a fine lady—she is also a decade my junior, and one I have seen grow from her girlhood. I will make this plain to you, my lady, for the respect we share between us. I will never marry Brella.”

The softness was gone again; Barbrey’s mouth so pinched it was naught but a line. Roger shifted uneasily but was unwilling to speak when his sister commanded the room.

“I see.” She very much did _not_. “Is this the thanks we receive for our loyalty? Our sacrifices?”

But she had taught him all her tricks. “Do you doubt my love for you all? Markas will inherit Barrow Hall, but Konrad…I have not named a Lord to the Dreadfort yet. I have forgotten nothing.”

A holy light lit in her eyes. Roger swelled. Her hands were alive in his own. “Konrad will be your finest lord. He has always looked up to you, Jon. He will make you proud.”

This was not a thing untrue. He was older than all of Barbrey’s children but Markas. He had treasured his time with them; spent more days with each alone than he had with all his cousins combined. That was a hurt he would have to live with. A sting that would never fade.

The Starks were gone now, no summer days left for them to wile.

“Then speak no more to me of Sansa Tully. It is done; we cannot survive without their food. And when a thing is done—”

“We must endure it.” Barbrey finished, for it was her own words that she was echoing. “I will send for Konrad; he will be here for the wedding and then the coronation.”

“Glad tidings.” He agreed, and felt her hands slip away.

Brother and sister departed him arm in arm, and he wondered if this was truly the end of it. Barbrey was not a woman easily pleased nor ignored. He knew that well—his own kingship was more than proof.

During the war…she had known so many things. What had happened in Winterfell when the rumors had still been garbled. Had told him, to the day, when Roose Bolton and his forces would arrive at the Neck.

When his Uncle Ned had called his banners, she had forbidden Jon to leave. Her husband had gone with a token force, refusing to show cowardice, and Willam Dustin died for his efforts. When the pleas had come from the Wall over Wildling raids, she’d sent Jon farther North.

_Prove yourself to them, show them that you will protect them._

He’d brought Wildings through the Wall to hold The Gift. If one must hunt the fox, then send a fox. He’d made peace with the Watch in this venture by the sword. A thousand Ryswell and Dustin blades had agreed with him. And when word had come of little Rickon’s slaughter, of grandmother Lyarra fighting and then dying like an animal, and little Arya forced into a wedding with the Bolton Bastard, only to have a secret blade ready for her wedding night…

They’d all died. Word had come to him swiftly. _You are the only Stark. The Karstarks move with the Boltons in the South. Your mother is a traitor. Your half-siblings are the children of traitors twice over. You are the only Stark._

He would never know the truth. Between mercy and vengeance when so many loyalties had remained shadows, he’d chosen mercy. The past was done. Only what they did now would matter. He had a letter to write; to wing south in search of his bride.

Sansa Tully—by the gods, did her name taste sweet his tongue. She would be his Queen, his lady wife. _His_.

They would rebuild, remake, have children of their own. There would be peace and golden summers. The North would respect her as they respected him, or one and all, he would hang them bleeding from the trees until their gods were sated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon: *hears Sansa's name exactly once*
> 
> Also Jon: 
> 
> Pray he pecks no ones eyes out for looking at her! 😂
> 
> And hmmmmm, the Riverlands considers what happened at the Neck to be horribly violent. Jon considers his time there to have been merciful. We shall keep peeling the layers back on the Neck, the Revolt at Winterfell, the murder of the Starks, and the Northern Civil War as we go on...
> 
> Side note: what Jon pardoned many of the lords for was the murder of Ned and probable murder of Robb, and colluding with the Boltons to overthrow the royal family. Jon wasn't in the South to know the truth, and just like us, had to face a tangle of clashing rumors of who was involved. In the end and for the stability of the North, anyone who wasn't Bolton or their direct bannermen were pardoned. Jon was too busy with the Wildlings and then fighting the forces Roose Bolton left in the North (along with some traitorous Karstarks my oh my), to do more. 
> 
> Also, if no White Walkers...what had the Wildlings so afoot?? Those layers will be peeled back as well. 👀
> 
> Next chapter...will be posted not this Sunday/Monday, but next Sunday/Monday. Still not feeling well so I don't think any writing will be happening this weekend. So we'll see. And figured I should post today as long as I had a burst of energy.
> 
> Tune in next time for: Sansa heads North, and does her best to learn the nature of her King and future husband before he stands before her.


End file.
